


Divertimento (ABANDONED)

by VincentMeoblinn



Series: Musicverse [4]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal, Frottage, M/M, Music, Oral, Past Drug Use, Rimming, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-02-26 14:01:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2654639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock the musician and John from ‘Write Your Lyrics On My Heartstrings’ meet in a completely different way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He had a limp and his hand was shaking. That was Sherlock’s first impression of the fan standing in front of him dressed like an old man despite his young hears. He had a cane as well. An old man cane. It was like he didn’t care that he was only in his early thirties.

“I’m a huge fan,” The man smiled, holding out a CD for Sherlock to sign, “You’re the most brilliant composer.”

“Quite,” Sherlock agreed, signing the CD and passing it back.

“I’ve written a few lyrics if you’d like to…”

“I don’t do lyrics anymore. Piss off,” Sherlock snapped.

Lestrade cleared his throat beside him.

“Erm… sorry. Touched a nerve,” Sherlock forced a smile onto his face.

“No problem,” the man smiled weakly, “Look, I know you get this sort of thing all the time but I’d love to buy you coffee.”

“No.”

Lestrade sighed. Sherlock ignored him.

“Ouch,” The man laughed, “Okay, no problem. I guess not all brilliant musicians are playboys. Still, it’s like that joke, you know?”

“Joke?” Sherlock asked, distracted by the man’s continued conversation. He just wanted to pay for his latte and leave but the man was standing in his way and shoving cripples was on Lestrade’s list of things he wasn’t allowed to do; especially now that his fame had waned and he was down to only writing new versions of classical compositions. At least he could play his Strad, though if his slump continued for another couple of years he’d be forced to sell it or move in with his brother. Hell if he’d be able to hold down a ‘normal’ job.

“Yeah, you know the one that comedian said? Where getting turned down for a date is the ultimate insult because that means they don’t even want to sit through a free meal with you?”

“You said nothing about a meal. Or a date. Or paying for a meal,” Sherlock stated blandly.

“Oh. Uh… would that make a difference?”

“Unlikely since I’m leaving in the morning and have no time to waste on someone who I’ll never see again.”

“Fuck’s sake, Sherlock,” Lestrade sighed, “Just tell him you’re a heartless asexual bastard and the walk away.”

“What he said,” Sherlock stated, then handed his card to the barista. It was declined.

Sherlock growled in frustration.

“Here,” The man stated, and handed his own to her, “No pressure, yeah? I’ll leave you alone with your drink.”

The man took his card back and stepped aside so Sherlock could move as he pleased. The composer stepped to the other counter to wait for his drink while his fan ordered his own and then joined him a moment later. He apparently meant what he’d said and just stood there with both hands on the cane as he smiled softly and watched the people make their drinks.

“So… you were shot,” Sherlock tried.

“Sherlock just stop talking,” Lestrade snarled.

“It’s fine,” the man replied with a grin, “Yeah, mugging gone bad a few years ago. I was going to be a surgeon but it damaged my hand so I had to drop out of Uni and looked for a new career.”

“Your hand shaking is psychosomatic,” Sherlock stated, “Why did you feel the need to lie about it?”

“Sherlock!” Lestrade snapped.

“Um…” the man blushed, “Well, it’s just that most people think I’m crazy if I say that. And I’m not. Hitting on famous people in Starbucks aside.”

“So what do you do now?” Sherlock wondered as he took his drink.

“I’m a cashier at the Tesco on the corner,” the man blushed in apparent humiliation, “Never finished school so… so when is your next album coming out?”

“Don’t answer that,” Lestrade stated firmly.

“You heard him,” Sherlock shrugged.

“Oh, sorry,” the man smiled softly, “I’m John, by the way.”

Sherlock shook his hand awkwardly, his own introduction pointless, “Thanks for the latte.”

“No problem. It’s my weekly splurge. I’m addicted to this stuff,” John laughed, “Well, I wish I could say I’d see you around but you’re probably not going to be in this backwater town again.”

“Not likely,” Sherlock replied, “We were only routed here because of an issue with our last flight. This place doesn’t draw in enough tourism.”

“Yeah, I figured. Just glad I had one of my CD’s on hand,” John motioned to it, “I really appreciate you signing it.”

“No problem,” Sherlock nodded.

John turned and limped for the doorway. Sherlock stared after him for a moment.

“Is it just me or was he completely unphased by me being an arsehole?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah, he was,” Lestrade laughed, “Maybe you should have taken him up on a date.”

Sherlock was headed for him before Lestrade could finish stammering that he was joking. He caught the man’s arm as he was about to open the door.

“I haven’t time for a date, but you’re welcome to come back to my hotel room with me. I have some music on my laptop you’ve likely not heard.”

The man flushed brilliantly and nodded with wide eyes, “Just… let me call out to my work. I’ll tell them… something…”

“Good,” Sherlock nodded, and then gave Lestrade’s shocked look a confused one before turning back to John, “You can call them in the car.”

They piled into the car and John fidgeted and trembled a bit. Lestrade drove their rental car back to the hotel in silence, occasionally glancing into the back where John and Sherlock sat in silence. Once they got to his room Sherlock sat down on his bed and opened his computer while he started his favourite monologue- why he had no decent lyricist. John took the only chair in the room and tried not to look uncomfortable. It took a while before Sherlock realized he probably thought he’d been invited back for sex. Well, he’d find himself sorely disappointed.

“It sounds like you’ve really had a hard time finding someone who understands your music,” John stated.

“Exactly,” Sherlock replied emphatically.

“Of course that’s not a huge shock since you write so many different styles. I guess they’d need to get to know you first, and then write for you instead of writing their own agendas. I mean the messages you’ve put out with your lyrics are pretty mixed. Here you are taking a bloke to your hotel room, but you’ve got songs disdaining homosexuality and others promoting it.”

“I don’t care about the message,” Sherlock sneered, “The only point of lyrics is to hook more listeners. Since I don’t have an agenda someone else’s will do.”

“Except you didn’t like them,” John shrugged, “So it didn’t work out. Hang on, I’ve got something on my phone here…”

John fiddled with the device for a moment, muttering in frustration as he tried to figure it out, and then hit play on something. It was John singing to one of Sherlock’s more recent classical pieces. He’d written charming lyrics to it, but what was more amazing was his voice. Sherlock sat mesmerized, his mouth slightly open in awe.

“Well?” John asked as the recording came to an end, “It’s just a rough draft but…”

Sherlock shook his head in amazement, “You… sing that for me now.”

“What?” John flushed brilliantly, “I can’t do that. It’s just I can’t figure out how to type on this efficiently so…”

“Sing. It. Now,” Sherlock repeated, his tone threatening.

“I get stage fright,” He replied, his voice cracking miserably.

“Get over it,” Sherlock growled, standing and crossing to the man. He lowered himself down so his knee was pressed between his thighs on the chair, his groin pressed against Sherlock’s clothed leg, “If you sing for me the way you sang in that clip I’ll sleep with you.”

“You… wow… um…” John flushed, “I really just wanted some time with you. I mean, you’re gorgeous but… it’s just I don’t do this sort of thing.”

“Yes,” Sherlock plucked a stray string from his shoulder, “It’s not the sort of thing old men do, but then you aren’t the decrepit creature you’ve made yourself out to be with your jumpers and cane.”

“I have a condition,” John replied, his eyes flashing as the insult struck him below the belt.

“You have a physical limp, not a fashion disability. At least get a cane that doesn’t scream ‘I gave up’.”

“So what if I have?” John asked, “I’ve never had a single nice thing in my life. Why should I expect it to start happening after I lost my mobility?”

“You haven’t lost your mobility, you’ve got a good leg and a bad leg. You’ve got two functioning arms and hands, one with a slight shake that doesn’t stop you working a mediocre job. You’ve got more than most of the people living rough around London- trust me, I know.”

John winced, “I forgot. I read about that. You being homeless for a while.”

“Homeless and hopelessly addicted to cocaine, yes,” Sherlock nodded, “My violin got me out of the world of the damned, but it hasn’t got me back into my high-rise flat with the view of London I miss so much. Your voice could.”

“R-really?” John asked, looking startled, “I only took a few voice lessons as a lark in Uni.”

Sherlock leaned closer, invading the man’s personal space and breathing into his ear, “Sing.”

John squeaked horribly on the first two notes, then he straightened his back despite the fact- or perhaps because- it ground his growing erection into Sherlock’s thigh. His voice was perfect in pitch and two toned; ability Sherlock had not heard outside of a specially trained group of Tibetan monks. As John’s voice washed over him he had absolutely no problem reaching down and palming John’s erection as his own ardour rose dramatically. He grasped the man’s trembling hand and pressed it to his crotch demandingly, but John pulled it away and then pushed at Sherlock’s hips. His gorgeous voice stopped and Sherlock was left staggering backwards, completely wrecked and panting with desire.

“This is insane,” John stated, pupils blown, “I know musicians are supposedly odd but…”

Sherlock tackled him, grabbing his lapels and pulling him backwards onto the bed where he toppled on top of Sherlock. He pressed their lips together at the same time John grasped his arse and started rolling his hips into Sherlock’s aching erection. He was clearly aroused, but still pulled away a second later. Sherlock growled and pulled him back forcefully. John moaned into his mouth and surrendered to his own desire, tugging at Sherlock’s zip. They shed each other’s clothes and climbed higher up the bed where Sherlock eagerly accepted John between his thighs. They rubbed against each other hungrily, snogging sloppily like overly enthusiastic teenagers. John was a biter, apparently, and Sherlock gasped and jumped a bit as his ear and shoulder were subjected to random nips. He grasped the full bottom at his disposal and encouraged John to thrust against him with his own needy motions. Sherlock could feel his need coiling in his belly and chased it relentlessly as sweat made their hungry motions that much easier. The tease of wiry hair across his body was an added erotic element he’d never considered before and he rubbed his legs across John’s legs to get more of it.

“Fucking hell,” John gasped, “You need this bad, eh?”

Sherlock was too blissed out on sensation to reply. Even during his drugged out days he’d not indulged in sex with anyone, preferring to keep his body to himself. This man was undoing every discipline he’d ever had with lips, hands, and hips. When he shifted up and took Sherlock in hand it took only two strokes before he was shouting out his release. The pleasure overwhelmed him, all his senses shorting out as everything narrowed down to his spurting cock. When he touched himself it never felt like this, never this sense of intense pleasure that spiralled out of his body until he was gasping for it to stop while longing for it to continue.

“Bloody hell, you even come on pitch,” John panted, “That shouldn’t be as hot as it is.”

John was kneeling over him now, stroking his own cock fast when a thought occurred to him.

“Roll over. Come on,” He nudged Sherlock, “You promised me sex in exchange for singing. I want more than a wank over your pretty body. Roll over.”

Sherlock complied with a petulant grumble, ignoring John as he crossed to the bathroom. He returned with something and set about opening it. Then Sherlock hissed in surprise as his arsecheeks were spread wide.

“John?” He asked, and then flinched at the fear he’d let into his voice.

“You okay?” John asked, his thumb was stroking around Sherlock’s pucker, wet and cold with some odd substance, “You clenched up on me. Relax, yeah? I take it you usually top? I’m an old hat at this, I’ll not hurt you if you just calm down.”

Sherlock bit his bottom lip and turned his face into the pillow, taking slow breaths to relax himself as the pillow masked the small whimpers of that first breach. John’s thumb worked in and out of his bottom, small words of encouragement spoken in a sex-strained voice. John wanted this. Badly. Sherlock knew that people often used sex to get what they wanted, and that it wasn’t uncommon for someone to become attached after it. He hoped this was the case. He wasn’t letting John out of his sight. Ever.

“I almost didn’t go for blokes, you know,” John told him as he knelt behind him and licked at the sweat dripping down his back, “Then I got drunk and thought, why not? Never looked back. I usually top but… you’re so long and slim I’d let you in my arse in a heartbeat. You’ve got a cock like a bloody porn star.”

“I’ve never seen porn,” Sherlock panted, “I hear it’s repulsive and unrealistic.”

John chuckled, “Never seen any? Well we’ll have to remedy that, but your cock is hardly either of those. Bloody hell you’re tight!”

Sherlock gasped as John brushed a spot inside him that made pleasure curl up inside of his body, he gasped and pushed back experimentally.

“Benefit of having some training as a doctor,” John chuckled, “No one ever fingered you before?”

“Not as such,” Sherlock panted, watching spots light up behind his eyes, “This might be better than cocaine.”

“Mmm, let’s cure your uncertainty,” John growled, pulling out his fingers despite Sherlock’s whine of irritation.

Instead John pulled a condom out of his trousers that had landed on the chair he’d been sitting on. He tore it open and rolled it on with obvious experience before kneeling up behind Sherlock and slicking his cock up with more lotion.

“Not the best stuff to use, but this won’t take long,” John huffed, “If you give me another chance I’ll use lube instead and really send you to the moon.”

“If?” Sherlock snorted, “I demand you fuck me again.”

John chuckled, “Bloody hell you’re good for my ego. Haven’t even gotten round one in.”

John lined himself up with Sherlock’s bum, advised him to face the headboard again, and pressed slowly into him. He stopped whenever Sherlock tensed and began again when he relaxed. It felt like it took ages and Sherlock was worried he’d get frustrated and simply pull out and leave.

“Almost there,” John whispered softly, stroking Sherlock’s back, “That’s it. You’re doing fantastic.”

Sherlock shuddered as John’s words triggered a hot flush of desire in him, and it must have made him flutter inside as well because John groaned and thrust that last bit home. They panted a moment, John fully seated inside with his cock pulsing angrily while Sherlock tried to stop his body from attempting to expel the most certainly welcome intruder.

“I’m… I’m ready,” Sherlock lied, “You can move now.”

John groaned in relief and slid partway out before pushing in again. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut at the burn, but a few short thrusts later and his body had relaxed. Once Sherlock let out a sigh and began to push back John took it as the sign he was looking for and began to speed up. Sherlock gasped as his prostate was teased with every thrust and found himself pressing back without giving his body permission. Someone was speaking and he realized in horror that it was he who was chanting John’s name like a mantra! The older man behind him began to pound into Sherlock at a faster rate, panting as he became frantic for release. A few more thrusts and his amazing vocalist let out a beautiful cry and stilled inside of him. Sherlock’s eyes widened as he felt the pulse of his release. When John’s flaccid cock finally slid free the man stilled Sherlock before he could turn over.

“Just want to check… yeah, you’re okay. I really wish I’d had lube on me.”

“I’m unharmed,” Sherlock replied, “That was… good. Very good.”

“Yeah,” John sighed, sliding his condom off, knotting it, and tossing it in the trash, “Erm… shower?”

Sherlock made a face, “An excellent idea.”

He stood up and headed for the bathroom with an awkward gate, chuckling at himself even as John stood up with a grin to watch him go. Shutting the door and locking it automatically, he set about running himself a very hot shower. He contemplated a soak in the tub, but in a motel? Who knew what kind of nasty filth had gone on in there! It would have to wait until he got back to his flat. Clean and feeling less like a rentboy, Sherlock unlocked the bathroom door and stepped out into the bedroom again.

John was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

_This story took me so long because I had to re-write it several times. It almost_ almost _became a poly fic with Sherstradelock, but I just couldn't reconcile this posh spoiled Sherlock as a sharing type. It sounds so kinky- manager doing what he can to please talent- but it just wasn't working. I might throw in a oneshot where that does happen just for fun, though._

 

John stepped into his dingy little bedsit and dropped his keys into the bowl on the nightstand table. He headed straight for the shower, shaking his head at how rude his bedmate had been in refusing him a shower! He could have at least let him wash up in the sink and be on his way. Still, it had been a fantastic shag and John disposed of his clothes in the hamper with a happy sigh. It had been ages since he’d last been with anyone. He usually didn’t have much time for that sort of thing. Dating got him nowhere and he wasn’t really young enough to pull women for one-offs. Men were a little easier to pull, but not always and he still had to have the time to actually go _out_ and try his luck. Also he’d been honest. He didn’t go in for those sorts of things. He liked to have a _connection_ to his partners.

John sat on his bed and stared at the little fireplace. After about an hour he switched things up by sitting in his deskchair and staring at the bed. That led him to remembering his one-off with the gorgeous musician again and he smiled stupidly for a while. Then he decided to write about it in his blog, because it had been ages since anything besides eat, sleep, and go to work had happened to him. In fact, his last blog entry was just before Christmas over three years ago.

_Dec 14_

**_Nothing_ **

John sighed. He’d be back to that tomorrow. It was all well and good to stumble through the looking glass and get a glimpse at something amazing, but he’d been a piece of arse to that brilliant, beautiful, ingenious man and that was how it was going to stay. Pity. He’d almost bought into the whole ‘sing for me’ thing, but when it was all well and done reality had hit _hard._

_January 29th_

**_A Strange Meeting_ **

_Today something spectacular happened to me, something that I’m hoping won’t cost me my job by posting this. Thankfully I’ve got literally NO followers to this blog, so that shouldn’t be a problem. Let me start off by saying that I’m no kiss-and-tell, so you won’t get names or details from me, but here it is: I met someone. Someone FAMOUS. I’d like to say we’re off on a whirlwind of adventures, but a one-off is more realistic. Still, I’m not going to post shady details. That’s not me. Thing is, he was really fantastic. I mean, really, really, utterly brilliant and amazing. Not just in bed, but in every way. He was smart, talented, gorgeous, and had me utterly mesmerized._

_Too bad it couldn’t last. He was quite the flatterer, making me feel like it was real for him, but he turned it all off the second the sweat dried. Even locked me out of the bathroom! Point made, I suppose, and I was an idiot for thinking otherwise. So here I am back in my ugly brown bedsit feeling like the shit my wallpaper resembles. At least I’ll always have those few hours to look back on and smile about._

John contemplated the risk he was taking, decided that if he had no real friends to tell it to in person he might as well blog about it, and hit ‘post’. Then he sat back and smiled sadly at the laptop.

“How pathetic is it that you’re the only one I can tell about a fantastic shag?” John sighed, then stood up and walked away before he got himself started on a habit of talking to inanimate objects. He was already pathetic enough!

The next day John headed back to work with the excuse of a 24-hour bug, and his miserable expression must have made it damned convincing because his boss worried and asked if he needed to go home.

“Ta, but I’m fine,” John replied, “Just a bit tired. I can work.”

He settled down behind a register and flipped the switch only to find… Sherlock Holmes leaning over the counter with an outraged look on his face.

“You’re lucky I was actually _listening_ when you told me you worked at a Tesco! I’ve been to _three_! You call this nearby?!”

John’s jaw dropped. Then his eyes slid down Sherlock’s body and he swallowed a few times. The man’s clothes were practically painted on.

“Oh gods,” John breathed, feeling his body stir again.

“Stop looking at me like that!” Sherlock shouted, drawing attention despite the few people in the store at that early hour, “You don’t get to look at me like that until you give me an explanation!”

“I… you… we… I thought…”

“Next time leave the thinking to me!” Sherlock snapped.

“Yes sir,” John stammered, only a bit sarcastic.

Lestrade stepped up behind him, “Fuck’s sake, Sherlock. I’m sorry, mate. He’s not usually like this. Sherlock, let’s _go_. I already cancelled one flight for you, we can’t miss the next or we’ll be here overnight again. This backwater town doesn’t even _have_ an airport! More like an airdot.”

“Piss off!” Sherlock snapped at Lestrade.

His manager was on the way over, her face a mask of professional calm and steel. John groaned.

“You’re going to get me fired!” He hissed.

“Good! Then you’ll _have_ to come with me!” Sherlock snapped.

“Excuse me sir, is there a problem?” Sarah asked.

“No, just…” John started.

“Yes. Your employee is a heartbreaking moron.”

“Oh my gods,” John stated plainly, “Just shut up already.”

“John!” Sarah gaped at him.

“This isn’t work related,” John stated, stepping out from behind his register and taking a firm grip on Sherlock’s arm, “He’s my… boyfriend and he’s in a tiff. Just give me a second to calm him down?”

“Very well,” Sarah frowned, “Take it somewhere private, please.”

John dragged Sherlock to the employee loo, unaware of anywhere else he could go with the man. His agent followed along looking embarrassed and annoyed. John ignored him.

“Look,” John stated, locking the three of them in, “I don’t know what you think you’re doing but this is my _job_ that I need to _survive_ and…”

John found himself shoved up against he counter, his crotch being palmed roughly.

“Is this what you want?” Sherlock snarled, his face twisted with misery, “A cheep shag in the toilets?”

“No, I… fuck,” John swallowed hard. If Sherlock’s mere proximity set him off than having his crotch fondled was definitely going to do it for him, “You locked me out of the bathroom. Dismissed me like a rentboy.”

“I told you I wanted _more_ ,” Sherlock hissed, stroking him faster, “I told you I wanted _you_ as my _lyricist_. After everything that passed between us, what more did you need? A declaration of love? I’ll _marry_ you, if you need it, but you’re not coming back here, to this mediocre joke of a job, to carry on hiding your _raw talent_ behind a vest and a fake welcoming smile!”

John groaned, grasping Sherlock’s shoulders as the man tugged open his trousers and fisted his cock with sharp, angry motions.

“Fucking hell!”

Sherlock pulled John flush against him, whispering straight into his ear while he continued to work his cock between them, “What do I have to do or say to make you mine, John?”

John bit down on Sherlock’s shoulder, shaking as he came hard enough to make the room spin a bit. He stood there, trembling and clutching at the gorgeous singer, before whispering weakly into his shoulder.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Come with me to London. It’s our next stop on the tour. Sing what you wrote for me,” Sherlock whispered back, his breath hot against the side of John’s head.

“I get stage fright.”

“Get over it.”

“M’kay.”

They separated and Sherlock gave his stained shirt a disgusted look, “Lestrade go get me a clean shirt.”

“Fucking hell,” Lestrade replied just as John’s head shot up, recalling the third person in the room. Lestrade’s pupils were blown and he had an obvious erection. He also looked a mixture of shocked, aroused, and disgusted, “Fine. He’s paying for his own ticket and accommodations.”

“He’ll stay with me in London.”

“Fine.”

Lestrade left and Sherlock frowned after him, “You _can_ pay for your ticket. Right?”

John laughed a bit hysterically, “I’ll call in a favour.”

XXX

John fidgeted on the plane, but Sherlock seemed unbothered by it. In fact, Lestrade’s expression implied that he was _shocked_ that Sherlock seemed unbothered by it. John had Lestrade’s seat next to Sherlock since his own ticket had been purchased so far afterwards and Sherlock refused to have him sit far away from him. That left Lestrade staring up at them from a few rows back in absolute confusion. When they were given the clear to move, he immediately got up and hurried forward.

“Okay. I give. What is this?”

“John and I are engaged, obviously,” Sherlock snorted, “Why shouldn’t we sit together?”

“I’m engaged. On a plane. On my way to London. To sing next to Sherlock Holmes in a concert. Fuck me,” John muttered, looking as if he wasn’t really sure if this was happening or not.

“On the plane?” Sherlock smirked, “That could be interesting. Do people do that?”

John whimpered a bit rather than reply, his dopey grin back on his face.

Lestrade’s tone turned placating, “Look, I get that he was your first shag-”

“First what now?” John asked in surprise.

“-But this is ridiculous,” Lestrade continued as if John hadn’t spoken, “What’s got you hooked on this guy?”

“John, sing,” Sherlock ordered, his eyes glued on Lestrade.

John laughed a bit, “Sure, why not? _Boom, boom, ain’t it great to be cray-zee…”_

“Sing something _proper_ ,” Sherlock snapped in disgust, glaring at him.

John launched into a Disney song that had been playing in his head ever since the moment in the bathroom. It involved a young woman who fell hard for a man the day she met him, obsessed with the idea that love could open the doors to her claustrophobic world. It was incredibly appropriate for the situation. Sherlock gave Lestrade a pointed stare and the man stood there with his draw dropped.

“Christ on a cracker,” Lestrade breathed.

“Precisely,” Sherlock smirked.

“You need help sucking his dick, you just let me know,” Lestrade stated, clapping Sherlock on the shoulder, “Also, you’re now the second man in the act. He’s the first.”

“Duly noted,” Sherlock snorted, “Also I’ll manage his cock on my own.”

Lestrade wandered back to his seat and started typing furiously on his laptop.

“Did he just offer to suck me off?” John asked in confusion.

“Did you want him to?” Sherlock asked, “He’s more experienced than I am and would probably be better at it. Though honestly, your libido is alarming. Have you had that checked?”

John laughed again, still slightly hysterical, “I’m fine right now, thanks. I think I’ll stick with your lips- experienced or not.”

“Good,” Sherlock replied with a casual shrug, “I’d probably become jealous eventually anyway.”

XXX

John was shaking and sweating, standing backstage in his only suit- a threadbare hideous brown one. Currently Sherlock was on stage, swaying and playing beautifully while the audience sat enthralled. His talent was unsurpassed on three continents, but John was hardly listening despite the stellar spot he was standing in. John would be singing the song he’d written for Holmes’ Concerto #4 in D-minor. He had the lyrics in his phone and was skimming them despite having memorized them ages ago. They’d be on the music stand he’d be standing beside anyway. Apparently this was Sherlock’s favourite theatre, and the first one he’d ever performed on professionally. The acoustics in the theatre were such that Sherlock had mused that John wouldn’t even need a microphone, but one was fitted to his collar anyway. His song ended, the audience applauded, and the announcer explained that a last minute alteration had been made to the score.

“Please welcome, John Watson.”

John stood frozen in place. The audience waited. Someone prodded him in the back. He planted his legs and _refused_ to move. When they tried to shove him he took a swing at them over his shoulder with his cane. The audience was muttering and a few people shouted at the stage, though their words were unintelligible. Then Sherlock lost his patience, put his violin and bow down, and stomped towards him. He grabbed John by his ear and literally _dragged_ him out.

“Ow, ow, ow, _ow_!” Echoed across the theatre and the audience laughed at their antics.

“Deep breathe and sing. You’ll do fine,” Sherlock stated.

“You’re supposed to tell me to break a leg,” John babbled, his voice once again loud due to the microphone. The audience was laughing again and John wanted to sink through the cracks in the floor.

“You don’t need luck, and I like your legs the way they are.”

Sherlock winked saucily, his reply unheard since his microphone was attached to his violin. The man returned to his spot and took up his microphone while John shakily headed for the taped _X_ that told him where to stand. The music started, beautiful and lilting, but John’s moment to sing passed with him still mute and staring out into the crowd. Sherlock circled back around and John heard his moment slip by a second time. He was about to bolt off the stage when Sherlock moved, standing in front of John and staring into his eyes while sliding the bow across the violin and swaying his hips in a sultry motion. By the time the score circled back a third time they were alone on the stage in John’s mind, with the gorgeous man serenading him as he had in his fantasies.

“A breeze flows across the meadow,  
Whispering of hope and desire.  
A trembling youth steps forward,  
Risking everything for this one chance.”

John’s voice ebbed and flowed with Sherlock’s music, he was lost to the man’s hypnotic eyes and sensual skills. He let himself fall into sync with him and when Sherlock slowly stepped aside he faced the audience with only a fraction of the fear he’d had at first. They were all staring at him with rapt attention while Sherlock moved off across the stage, swaying and dancing just a bit as he lost himself to his own song. His tempo changed and he switched from minor to major, but John followed it with ease. The song had turned from fruitless longing to hopeful joy. He adjusted the words on a whim and Sherlock’s bow flew across the violin. When the song ended with John’s voice at opera levels the room was a shocked collective hush. Then people surged to their feet and the room burst into applause so loud that John was kept from covering his ears only by etiquette. Sherlock crossed the stage, caught him behind the head, and pressed a quick but firm kiss to his lips. A few people hooted, but for the most part this was a _classical_ presentation, and unlikely to be undignified. Sherlock led John forward to bow and they smiled at the flowers handed to them before walking offstage together. John’s legs were turning to jelly but Sherlock simply turned immediately and dragged him back out by his shaking hand.

“Sherlock…” John hissed, but the man was oblivious and even the microphone couldn’t make him heard over the wild approbation.

Sherlock made him bow again, and then again, and was about to drag him off stage again when John’s wobbly legs gave in and he simply collapsed on the stage. A collective gasp sounded and John spent a moment with his eyes shut and his hands over his face. He’d fallen sideways so Sherlock rolled him over as Lestrade, the stage manager, and a few of the grapplers came running out to see if he was okay. Lestrade had the presence of mind to pluck his microphone off of him in time for John to find his voice.

“Just get me the hell out of here!” John hissed loud enough to be heard over the concerned muttering of the audience and the grappler loudly proclaiming that he had a tester for sugar levels somewhere in his coveralls.

Sherlock slipped an arm beneath John’s shoulders and helped him stand on shaking legs. The second he was on his feet the audience let out a wild cry and applauded again while Lestrade took his other arm and helped him offstage. Someone had rolled an office chair forward and John was dropped into it.

“I _told_ you,” John groaned, “I _tried_ to warn you.”

“What’s he going on about?” Lestrade snapped, “Geoffrey, where’s that blasted meter?”

Sherlock took hold of John’s wrist and felt for his pulse, “His pulse is eratic and his pupils are dilating at different rates.”

“He’s on drugs?! Bloody hell! Not another one!” Lestrade groaned.

“No, he’s having a panic attack,” Sherlock scoffed, “John doesn’t even _drink_ much let alone do drugs.”

“How did you know that?”

“Your mobile. Clearly given to you by your alcoholic brother.”

“Sister.”

“Always something,” Sherlock sighed, “Look into my eyes and count backwards slowly from twenty.”

“I’m fine now.”

“Ten, then.”

“Fine,” John sighed, “Ten… nine…”

Sherlock had hold of John’s hand and was rubbing soothing circles into the back of it. His other hand was at John’s cheek, cupping it almost lovingly. John was again transported into a world where only the two of them existed.

“Three… two… one… you really need to stop doing that or I’m going to fall in love with you.”

“That’s the whole idea,” Sherlock smirked, “In the brief time after you abandoned me in that hotel room I spent the entire night watching romantic movies-“

“-Running up a _massive_ bill,” Lestrade interjected.

“-To find out where I went wrong and how I could keep you when I found you next. By morning I knew I’d managed to not seem affectionate enough. An unfortunate miscalculation caused by my upbringing and general disgust with human contact of all kinds. That won’t happen again.”

“I don’t want to disgust you.”

“You don’t,” Sherlock replied, and leaned in to kiss him slowly, tongue slipping in and working him slowly into a state of relaxation.

John sighed and sagged back in the chair as Sherlock’s lips came away. The people around them were silent with shock.

“Damn,” Lestrade grunted, swallowing hard, “Sure you don’t need help with his cock?”

“I think I can manage,” Sherlock replied sardonically, “Can you stand?”

“Yeah, I think so,” John replied, slowly rising on weak legs, “For a bit, anyways.”

“Enough to get out the doors?” Sherlock worried.

“Are there going to be throngs of your fans trying to reach out and touch even an inch of you?” John worried.

“Lestrade, keep them away.”

“On it,” Lestrade replied, pulling out his mobile, “Make sure you keep an arm around him on the way out. This is going to be the best damn publicity in your _career_.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and John grinned a bit, relieved that he wasn’t just doing this for the attention. Sherlock did keep an arm around John’s waist, but it was almost possessive. As they stepped out the people around them applauded and clapped, but stayed politely behind the velvet rope that Lestrade had made the theatre staff move out. John walked slowly but Sherlock was unhurried. He opened the door for John as if he were delicate, but in his current condition John couldn’t be arsed to care. He all but toppled into the waiting car- a posh black one- and sagged back in the seat as Sherlock joined him. Lestrade opened the opposite door and entered on that side, sandwiching John in. Camera’s flashed before the door shut and the tinted windows afforded them some privacy.

“The hotel, and step on it,” Lestrade snapped at the driver, “You need anything, John? I grabbed a bottle of water.”

“Ta,” John replied, holding out a shaking hand. Lestrade gave it a nearly panicked glance and opened the bottle for him rather than hand it to him. He covered John’s hand and helped him drink and John could hardly protest as he found he _needed_ the help.

“Maybe we should take him to a hospital?” Lestrade asked.

“He’ll recover soon enough,” Sherlock replied, wrapping an arm around John’s shoulders once he had finished his few shallow swallows, “John, what would comfort you most?”

“Bed. A hot shower.”

“A bath, more like,” Lestrade frowned, “You can’t stand on your own.”

“I’ll stand with him,” Sherlock replied.

“I can ask the staff for a shower stool,” Lestrade replied, “We can’t risk him falling. He’s a star now. By morning everyone will be clamouring to see the fainting singer.”

“Oh gods,” John groaned, “Is that what I’m going to be called?”

“Hopefully the media is more inventive,” Sherlock replied, “They’ve called me all manor of things, so don’t feel too bad about it.”

“That is less comforting than you think,” John replied, leaning into Sherlock’s side and closing his eyes, “Wake me when we get to the hotel. I feel like I’ve had all my energy drained out of me.”

“That’s the adrenalin drop,” Sherlock yawned, “I have horrific insomnia any other time, but right after a show I sleep like a baby.”

“I think it’s the only time I’ve ever seen him sleep,” Lestrade chuckled.

John and Sherlock both let out a soft snore and Lestrade sighed to sit back and admire them. Sherlock was gorgeous… and unattainable. John was sensual in his own way, the sweet sort of sexy that made him think of a warm fireplace, an old chair, and even older whiskey. He’d been following Sherlock around since the little brat was sixteen- first as his roadie and then as his manager- and had developed a deep and profound love for him along the way. That love wasn’t even close to returned, but he couldn’t help but be glad that Sherlock had found someone.

“Guys? Wake up. We’re at the hotel.”

Sherlock groaned and John rubbed at his face miserably, but they both heaved to and staggered into the lobby. Sherlock’s waning fame meant there were no fans at this doorway, but Lestrade would have to school John on not looking drunk with sleep for next time. Meanwhile he got the exhausted stars into their hotel room and started his usual routine of undressing Sherlock and shoving him down on the bed. John had found a chair and was watching with wide eyes. And an erection. Lovely.

“Sorry,” Greg smiled, “I don’t mean to manhandle your boyfriend- or whatever he is- it’s just that he’s pathetic after a show. I… ah… I usually give him a massage so he doesn’t wake up sore.”

“Do you want me to leave or…?”

“No!” Lestrade laughed, “It’s not that kind of massage. Well… I’ll admit it does things to me. Do you want _me_ to leave? There’s nothing between Sherlock and I like that.”

“I’ve no idea how to give massages and I don’t want him waking up sore either. I think I’ll just get that shower.”

“I don’t want you fall-“

“Shut it!” John snapped, and then held up a hand, “Sorry, I am _so_ sorry, it’s just this is damned embarrassing and…”

“Forget it, I’m used to The Great Git here,” Lestrade grinned, “Just let me know if you need anything, okay?”

“Yeah, sure. Thanks,” John grinned, staggering to the bathroom.

Lestrade was in a pickle. He usually gave Sherlock his massage, got hot and bothered, and then tossed off while sitting on the bed beside him. Sherlock had yet to figure it out- or was just completely unconcerned. He couldn’t very well do that and risk being caught by John on his way out of the loo. He’d just have to go without his stress release until he got to his room.

Lestrade grabbed the oil from his bag and headed over to Sherlock, climbing up to straddle his hips as he warmed the oil between his hands. He started by smoothing the oil across his skin in and then began a firm massage, focussing on the neck, shoulders, upper arms, and the middle of his back. This was the area where his fiddling weighed down on his muscles the most and Sherlock’s poor diet and rest schedule didn’t allow him to recover quickly. Lestrade continued to work his sore flesh, hard cock- not on purpose of course- grinding in between his arsecheeks with just his pants, trousers, and Sherlock’s pants between him and that luscious flesh.

He was soon panting with his arousal, and this was the point he’d normally climb off rather than sexually assault his friend/talent, but Sherlock groaned softly and it caused his hips to stutter frantically.

“John,” Sherlock moaned softly, drawing a gasp of longing from Lestrade.

“Oh wow,” John’s voice spoke softly.

Lestrade’s head shot up and he scrambled off of Sherlock with guilt plastered all over his face. John was hard again and Lestrade shoved away all the lewd images that came soaring up.

“I was just… he knows I…” Lestrade gestured at his crotch, “I never take it further.”

Sherlock mumbled, lifting his head weakly, “Come and lie down beside me, John. Lestrade will rub your back as well.”

“I’m not sure…” John replied, swallowing hard.

“Just ignore his erection,” Sherlock yawned, “He knows not to go further than wanting.”

“That’s a bit cruel,” John frowned.

“Oh, I’d forgotten,” Sherlock sighed, rolling over and posing in a sultry way, “You go in for those sorts of things. I suppose you’ll be needing my body again?”

“Oi! Watch the oil on the sheets!” Lestrade snapped, grabbing a towel and drying the prat off.

“You just… you’re fine with me… I don’t want you to be uninterested,” John muttered.

“Trust me, I’m not,” Sherlock replied, and then yawned wide, “I’m just so _tired_.”

“I can wait,” John replied with a soft smile, “I’m tired too.”

“Er… sexually frustrating backrub?” Lestrade offered as John staggered towards the bed.

“No thanks,” John chuckled, “I couldn’t even manage the shower. Sat on the toilet to shit and fell asleep. I’ll wash in the morning.”

“Remember our flight is at seven.”

“Damn,” John groaned, “Well, there’s nothing for it.”

Sherlock was already snoring away on top of the covers so John just climbed beneath them and curled up to sleep after his odd day. Sadly, as often was the case in bizarre circumstances, his brain chose that moment to switch on and John spent most of the night replaying the last two days over and again until he was an anxious and slightly giddy mess. It was one thing to have sex with someone, it was another thing entirely to sleep beside him. The latter somehow felt far more… intimate. Somewhere near four in the morning he fall fast asleep, completely unaware of Sherlock waking to piss and then coming back to curl up beneath the covers with him.


End file.
